A Recollection Half Erased
by Pouncer
Summary: Sherlock lay on the sofa and moaned. Fever was like oxycodone, with the added delight of achy muscles, splitting pain above his eyes, a sore throat, and no energy to move. Mentions of past drug use, twelve-tone modernist composers. Pairing permutation with Sherlock, John, and Sarah Sawyer.


The first time Sherlock took oxycodone recreationally, he dreamed of spiraling down into a labyrinth, full of strange children and tea parties and puzzles he couldn't solve. He hated not being able to solve a problem, couldn't understand why the pieces didn't fit together despite hours of effort. He woke with a start, looked at the clock, and found only minutes had passed.

Heroin was much nicer. It made the world float away on a blissful cloud, all cares left behind.

Fever was more like oxycodone, with the added delight of achy muscles, splitting pain above his eyes, a sore throat, and no energy to move.

Sherlock lay on the sofa and moaned.

Life was unjust. John, _his_ John, should have been home tending to Sherlock. What use sharing a flat with a doctor if he decided to run off with a co-worker at the drop of a hat? Sarah _said_ it was a medical conference, but Sherlock had doubts that was the true reason. Separate John from Sherlock, avoid being kidnapped by Chinese acrobat gangsters, and let romance bloom.

Romance was boring, unless it caused murder. Even then, it wasn't the most interesting kind of murder. Lestrade could usually solve unassisted the cases of jealous lovers, spurned suitors, or betrayed husbands. They were obvious.

Sherlock knew, vaguely, that there were thing he should do in order to make himself feel better - paracetaemol, liquids - all the things Mummy used to provide, with cool hands and comforting voice pitched _just right_. She'd turn the lights low, make Sherlock soup, then fuss over him _just enough_.

Without her presence, without _John_, Sherlock didn't see why he should bother.

Besides, the room spun when he tried to pull himself upright. His mobile battery was flat, Mrs. Hudson was touring Bath with her Austen book club, and none of it mattered because Sherlock would expire here, alone.

Unwanted.

That was when the shivering began once more, unstoppable waves of cold from his toes to his hair. The blanket wasn't warm enough. Sherlock curled himself tighter, nestled into the back of the sofa, and tried to ignore his numb toes.

Time went strange again.

His body was transformed into stone, creeping up from his feet like some demented take on a Greek myth. Sherlock tried to move, but his legs were rooted into the chalk that London was built upon. If he jerked, he'd crumble into pieces, be swept aside with efficient motions as Angelo cleaned his doorstep.

John was supposed to meet Sherlock for dinner. Sherlock had ignored a promising email (missing inheritance and a bizarre whistle heard in the night) to keep the date.

He knew how it had really gone: John walking up to Sherlock with a grin, stealing bites of mussels from John's plate and John's narrowed eyes and promises of revenge. Sherlock deducing the life stories of their fellow diners, preening at John's attention. Giggling together over acid speculation about bad habits and criminal tendencies. Walking back to Baker Street with their shoulders brushing. The stare held too long before John disappeared up the stairs to his room for the night, an unspoken invitation heavy in the air.

How much Sherlock had wanted to follow.

He couldn't follow anything now, trapped and invisible to passers-by, not even able to turn his head as the stone consumed him. Only his arms moved, but he couldn't reach, couldn't do anything - and then John was there. "What's this, Sherlock?" he asked, and clasped Sherlock's elbow, banishing the transformation.

Sherlock stepped forward, pulled John into an embrace, and shut out the world.

The shadows were different when Sherlock blinked his way back to the flat. His mouth was dry with thirst, and he lurched to a stand without considering the consequences. Dizziness nearly overwhelmed him, but he managed to find the wall and use it to guide him into the kitchen.

Water, straight from the tap, cupped in his palms, was the best thing he'd ever tasted. He drank and drank, not caring that the cuffs of his dressing gown got wet, then staggered back to the sofa.

Another interlude where he was lost in dreams, swimming through a pool while avoiding giant chunks of concrete roof. His clothes tangled around him, restricted movement like sentient and clutching vines. He had to find John, had to drag him to safety. There was a man following Sherlock, seizing his ankles and speaking (but that made no sense - the vibrations made by human vocal cords didn't travel clearly through chlorinated water, just air). Sherlock understood, all the same. "We were made for each other" and "Come with me" and "Let me be your heart."

As if Sherlock's heart was still his own and hadn't been given away long before, unknowing.

"Hey, hey." Limbs flailed. He had to kick his way free of Moriarty's grasp, had to find John.

"Sherlock." The voice wasn't mocking, was in fact serious and focused, demanding a response: "Sherlock!"

He opened his eyes and saw a blond blur, recoiled into the cushions, and recognized John.

"Ah," Sherlock croaked. "You're home."

John's hand pressed against his forehead, a worried frown on his face. "How long have you been like this?"

Sherlock tried to remember, because getting things right with John meant smiles, and he craved that approval far more than he should.

"Thursday? Friday? What day is this?"

"Sunday. This is Sunday, Sherlock. What did you _do_?"

Tramped across London in the rain to test how mud and footprints reacted under "downpour" conditions, but John wouldn't approve of _that_ experiment in the slightest. Sherlock shrugged.

"Weren't you supposed to be gone until Monday night?" Sherlock tried not to hope, because if he were fair (he didn't want to be fair), Sarah's reaction to the whole kidnapping/near death situation had been rather more even-tempered than he might have expected. She wasn't a _bad_ person, but John smiled at her too and Sherlock found that he wanted to hoard those for his exclusive use.

John shrugged. "Never you mind that now. Have you taken anything for fever?"

"No." The question confused Sherlock. He'd promised Lestrade, promised _Mummy_ that he wouldn't, and Mycroft could go hang for telling her about the cocaine.

John shook his head and muttered under his breath, but Sherlock couldn't understand the words. Not like Mycroft, who enunciated every syllable and pretended to care for reasons more than selfishness. Brothers squabbled all the time, according to Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft's voice, so mellifluous when judged objectively, made Sherlock's nerves shriek like Webern's String Quartet, all twelve-tone dissonance and fury.

For a while, Sherlock followed the notation of chromatic scales, spiky and sharp, up and down. There was a thermometer in his mouth; mercury rising. Liquid metal, toxic, prevents formation of myelin in children, once used to make felt hats. The thermometer went away.

"Drink this," John said. He cradled Sherlock's head in his palm, lifted him so he could sip at the glass. Orange juice, cool and delightful.

"Now take these." Pills at Sherlock's lips, and it had to be okay since John wanted Sherlock to take them. John was a doctor. He abhorred recreational drugs, so these had to be therapeutic. Sherlock swallowed obediently.

The disk of a stethoscope on his ribs made Sherlock jump. "Breathe in, Sherlock," John said. "Now out." Air flow was one thing that hadn't been troubling Sherlock, so John's hum of satisfaction wasn't a surprise. "Right, no pneumonia."

The ring of John's mobile was too loud. Sherlock winced and turned away.

John answered the phone, voice low. "Hello? Oh, yes. No, he's ill. Fever. Thirty-nine degrees. I found him collapsed on the sofa. Lungs are clear." A pause while the person on the other end of the line spoke. "That's what I thought. Nothing to do but let it run."

Sherlock felt a thrill of vindication. He hadn't mined the hidden stash of painkillers, no matter how miserable he'd been. Endure until his body reported for duty again, obedient to his will.

"There's no food, but I can run down to the shop -" The mere mention of food made Sherlock's stomach lurch. "You don't have to -" Sherlock wrapped his arms around his head, trying to block out the noise. "I would think soup. And thank you."

The room went quiet, and Sherlock dozed. Rustles and footsteps, John muttering in the kitchen about an experiment gone off - Sherlock did regret that one. He'd meant to dispose of the remains before John returned home.

Knocking at the door, then voices, the sound of a kiss. Sherlock snarled and pulled his knees closer to his chest.

"Oh my. Now isn't he a pathetic one." Gentle fingers stroked Sherlock's temple, pulled back tangled hair. The glow from the lamp was too harsh, stabbed into his head like an ice pick, but those feminine hands were rubbing at his scalp, banishing the ache. Sherlock whimpered. "Hush now. Rest," Sarah said.

As awareness receded, he must have imagined the soft kisses deposited on his brow.

His sleep was disturbed by twitches of his arms and legs, by the hateful sensation of falling. Sherlock jerked to a second of alertness, but was unable to reach full consciousness. He twisted and turned, heard himself say, "No!" and "Don't," then stilled as an adored voice murmured comfort.

"John," Sherlock slurred. "Stay."

"I'm not leaving, Sherlock," he seemed to hear - reassurance enough to let go and submit to the weariness calling to him.

When he woke, the flat was tidied. His mind felt clearer than it had in days, as if the external clutter had been causing his turmoil. Rubbish, of course.

John was sitting in his favourite chair, Sarah lounging sideways with her head on his shoulder. The sight caused a different kind of hurt.

Before Sherlock could extrapolate the future - John moving out, loneliness, on and on into misery - John noticed Sherlock was awake. They looked at each other for what felt like forever.

Sherlock wished he could summon words to tell John -

To let him know how much -

Before Sherlock could speak, John nudged Sarah. She glanced toward Sherlock, her expression unreadable, then retreated to the kitchen as John walked over.

"Feeling better?" John asked. He brushed his palm along Sherlock's forehead. "Fever's broken.

Sarah appeared at John's side holding a glass of water. "More paracetaemol," she said.

Sherlock wanted to spit the pills out, but John looked unyielding. He sat on the coffee table, and Sarah perched on the end of the sofa near Sherlock's feet. She reached out for them and Sherlock froze.

"As if I could take him away from you, Sherlock," she said, tapping his shins in reproach. He grew even more still, barely daring to breathe.

"Time away was clarifying," John said. "Particularly when you didn't answer texts or phone calls."

Oh. Perhaps that was why John had returned early.

"You're lucky I didn't call Mycroft," John said. Sherlock shuddered. "Now, let me tell you how this is going to go for the next little while: you're going to rest, and eat porridge, then possibly soup, and _not worry_." Sherlock's lip turned up at the mention of porridge. "Your body is more than just a conveyance for your intellect, no matter how much you try to pretend."

Sherlock opened his mouth to interject. John stalled him with a raised finger. "I have peer-reviewed literature. Medical studies. Negative effects of low blood sugar on cognitive tasks."

Sarah started to snicker.

"Once you're better, you can read the articles. But more importantly, we'll have a nice talk about things."

John's gesture encompassed Sarah, then he leaned forward. "Don't be daft, Sherlock." His hands landed on Sherlock's collarbone in what might be labeled a caress.

"I -" Sherlock began.

"It'll be okay, Sherlock," Sarah said.

John leaned even further, his face into the crook of Sherlock's neck. "It will," John said. "I promise."

Sherlock moved his arm to encircle John's torso, and tugged John closer. He was _not_ imagining the brush of lips against the side of his neck.

Another swell of fatigue engulfed Sherlock. He burrowed his toes under Sarah's thighs, then yawned.

"Rest," John said, still holding on.

Sherlock didn't let go.

- end -

Notes: For roses_of_anna in Holmestice (June 2011). Title adapted from Elliott Smith's 2:45 am. Massive thanks to my betas (Unovis, Carolyn Claire, and elzed) for their assistance and improving comments.


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